I put out a poll on my Instagram story asking what people wanted to read about in my next column, and “morally righteous profile of a friend” had a slight majority over “pop culture take” and “personal philosophy.” So, after much thought, I decided to focus this week’s column on someone who often plays more of a managerial role in my life when helping to book flights and doctor’s appointments but is my best friend when it counts: my mom.
Over reading week, my mom and I travelled across the pond to visit my older sister Sarah (another recurring character in the column at this point), who moved her life to London in the fall. For context, my mother and I are quite anxious, type-A people who rely on planning and list-making as coping mechanisms. So naturally, family vacations are typically heavily structured and leave little time for relaxation. But my mom took a different approach this trip, which fell right in the middle of an insanely busy semester for me. She had a rough idea of things she wanted to do and see, but wanted us to “go with the flow.”
Every few hours, we checked in with each other to assess if scones or tea were needed or if that next museum was worth our time. We walked a ton and became very familiar with the Tube, but never forced anything. We felt washed in a layer of calm, floating around the chaotic city in a peaceful little orb, exploring without pressure to achieve anything while my sister finished her work week.
When we joined Sarah for weekend activities, my mom’s tone-setting did more than ease my anxious mind; it bridged generational divides.
We decided to cap off Friday night with a trip to a pub to meet Sarah’s friends from Toronto, who also moved to London. The next night, I was glued to my sister in a crowded kitchen, far cleaner than the student housing I’ve become accustomed to. We were surrounded by 28-year-old Canadian expats who kept going on about how much we both talked and acted like our mother. A few days later, when the haze of my hectic journey home finally wore off and this memory came back to me, I was struck with pride and the inspiration for this column.
My mother has always been strong-willed, driven, opinionated and full of high expectations for her three daughters. She is also the most kind-hearted, good-intentioned, generous person I’ve ever known. Remembering her interactions with Sarah’s friends on our trip, I have visions of my mom’s inquisitive expression, genuine interest, and, most of all, her infectious laugh that could make anyone feel at ease. There is no one else I’d rather be compared to.
And oh yeah, when I missed my flight back to Halifax due to a ridiculously late night and a mysterious case of multiple alarms never going off, she waited the perfect amount of time to laugh with me and give me the necessary motherly speech about lessons you have to learn once in your life.
So, not only did she let go of our genetic urge to plan and pack our days full of excursions and activities, and remind my sister and I how lucky we are to have been raised by such an amazing woman, she also let me make a mistake and gave me a goldilocks amount of shit for it.
One of my qualms with writing this kind of column is that I struggle to justify painting shining portraits of people in my life. It feels sort of cheap to only represent someone’s best qualities because humans are riddled with flaws. I know this. But in thinking and writing about my mom, I started to understand my initial intentions for this body of work again. There is a lot of darkness in the world. Although it is incredibly important to educate yourself, I think it’s healthy and necessary to read something that pulls you into the light now and then. I hope my beautiful mother could be that for you today — she certainly has been for me.
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